To Save Dean Winchester, Or Something
by The Green Pilgrim
Summary: The Winchesters meet a hunter who claims not only to be from the year 2109, but to have been sent by angels to save Dean. The only problem is that he doesn’t know what, exactly, he is supposed to save Dean from. Well, maybe that’s not the only problem…
1. In Which a Hunter from the Future

A/N: So, a lot of weird things happen to the Winchesters. But they won't be around forever, right? Presumably, at some point the forces of heaven and hell will have to find somebody else to pick on. This is just an imagining of one of those somebodys, whose first mission happens to involve the Winchesters anyway. So maybe they are still being picked on…

Please note that this is almost totally silly, sort of.

To Save Dean Winchester (Or Something)

Part 1: In Which a Hunter from the Future Interrupts an Otherwise Quiet Evening

The bar is crowded and noisy. The Winchester brothers want it that way, as they share quiet victory beers in the corner. Sometimes privacy is easiest found amidst other people. It's been a hell of a few days, tracking down a handful of demons that decided it would be fun to possess household pets and attack the unsuspecting owners.

Not one of the toughest hunts they'd ever endured, but definitely one of the most annoying, not to mention one of the hardest to explain, considering the multiple brake-ins necessary and the odd assortment of casualties (which most notably included fifteen guinea pigs—but who the hell needs fifteen guinea pigs?). They'd skipped town as soon as they were finished and driven for a few hours until Dean decided it was necessary to find a motel, but more importantly to find a bar.

Sam lifts his beer to his lips, then winces and rubs the back of his hand, which is starting to bleed through its bandages. Dean snorts into his own drink.

"Dude, seriously?"

Sam scowls, "Hey, man, puppy teeth are _sharp_. Like needles."

Dean keeps laughing. "Uh-huh. Well I wouldn't know, I never had a puppy."

Sam thinks about this for a moment before brightening. "Can you imagine? We should have gotten a dog. Like a hunting dog. We could train it to smell ghosts, or attack demons or something."

Dean is about to make a sarcastic comment and then changes his mind as he thinks about it. "You know, that would be pretty cool."

But that is as far as the conversation gets, because then the general noisiness of the bar becomes noticeably louder. The brothers look toward the front door, where the ruckus is coming from. Someone has just walked in, and he is causing quite a stir.

"Wow!" they hear him say, "This is amazing! It's just like Disney World, or something!" There is some laughter at this, and the man proceeds to examine a colorful neon sign in the window that reads, "BUDWEI ER" with extreme interest. Dean notes vaguely that the man is young, probably about Sam's age, Asian, and carries a heavy-looking duffel bag. His attire is a little odd—a fraying grey trench coat with a lot of buckles that don't seem to actually serve any function, and equally buckle-y black boots that cover his calves. Beneath it looks like he's wearing some kind of military uniform, but not any that Dean's ever seen before, all in blacks and greys. His hair is spiked up, black except for two streaks in the front that look blond in the bar's dim lighting, but on second thought might be green.

Dean finds none of this very interesting and is about to turn back to Sam when the dude at the front loses interest in the sign, looks around, opens his mouth and begins shouting:

"WINCHESTER. I'm looking for Dean Winchester, has anyone seen him?"

Dean and Sam shoot each other surprised looks before groaning simultaneously. Don't they deserve a chance to relax, drink, and exchange pointless banter as much as anyone else? What now?

"DEAN WINCHESTER?" the man shouts. He is being ignored for the most part—some drunk looking for his friend, probably. Dean doesn't know if the guy is drunk or not, but he's certainly no friend of his. "Seriously, anyone? Anyone seen Winchester? HE'S A HUNTER AND HE—"

The brothers exchange looks again. They don't need to say it out loud to know what the other is thinking. Who the hell goes around shouting about hunters in front of normal people? Clearly slipping away from this guy isn't an option.

"Hey!" Dean calls out, standing up. By now most of the people in the bar have stopped whatever they were doing to stare at the strange, excited man by the door. "Joey, there you are!" he says, quickly approaching him. Sam sighs, throws several bills down at their table, and follows.

The stranger frowns in confusion. "My name is—" he begins, but Dean cuts him off, grabbing him by the shoulders and steering him back to the door.

"Shut up, you damn drunk," he says, loud enough so everyone else can hear. There is some scattered laughter, as well as a few groans and sarcastic comments, and then conversations pick up again. Dean opens the door and shoves the man outside in front of him. He's angry, angry enough to punch the guy even if he _hadn't _specifically been looking for him, just for interrupting what he had hoped would be a calm, weird-shit free evening.

The street outside the bar is brightly lit from the street lamps. It's practically empty at this time of night, but to be safe Dean drags the man around the corner and pushes him into the narrow alley between the bar and the building beside it. The man is unsteady for only a moment, then finds his footing and assumes a defensive stance. He's got an odd expression. Dean can feel his own face pulled into a stony scowl, but this guy's eyes are shining and he looks as if he wants to smile and is trying not to. Weird sort of attitude to have for a fight, but Dean's a little too pissed to actually care. He's about to attack when he feels Sam's hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

"Who are you?" Sam asks him directly. Leave it Sam to calmly try and get to the bottom of a situation. (Unless there are demons involved, in which case he can be a little scary.) ((Except when he was fighting that little possessed daschund earlier, which had actually been pretty funny.))

"I'm warning you," says the man. "I'm a Hunter, and I can kick both of your asses." He drops his duffel bag to the ground, and it lands with such a loud _clank_ that Dean thinks it is probably a lot heavier than the guy had made it seem, and full of something metal. Weapons, he assumes automatically, but the stranger isn't reaching for any, so possibly something else. Instead he stands with his fists up, ready to tango.

"Oh really?" Dean taunts. "Well, bring it. Let's see some kung fu, Jackie."

"Kung fu?" the man repeats. He looks extremely startled. Then, to Sam and Dean's surprise, his face brightens into a huge, delighted smile. "Was that racism?" he asks excitedly. "Facinating!"

Dean thinks that maybe this guy might be a bit nutty. Of course, if he really is a hunter then crazy goes with the territory, but it's the first time Dean's met one quite like this.

Before he can think of a way to respond, the guy launches himself at him and Sam. It catches them both off guard, but they've got well-honed reflexes and respond easily. Dean ducks the initial punch, and Sam grabs the man's extended arm and immediately tries to twist it behind his back. The man is surprisingly compliant with the motion, but as soon as Sam thinks he's got him he suddenly throws himself to the ground, bringing the taller Winchester with him. Sam let's go of him to try to break his fall, and their agile opponent is up in time to block a punch from Dean and deliver one of his own. Dean dodges, but not enough, and feels the man's fist graze his cheek bone. He's taken more than a few hits to the face in his life, and this one is surprisingly painful.

"What the hell?" he growls, blinking stars from his eyes. "You got steel in your fingers, or what?"

The man laughs and wags all of his fingers at Dean, obviously enjoying himself. No steel, but each of his palms has a tattoo, some kind of star. Dean doesn't have enough time to get a close look at them. Sam grabs the man from behind and with minimal effort—the guy is Dean's height and skinnier than both of them—slams him to the ground, landing on top of him in an imprisoning straddle. Dean immediately jumps down to help, grabbing his legs before he can knee Sam in the back while his brother restrains his arms.

"Who are you?" Sam demands, much less politely this time. With one hand he pushes the man's wrists into his chest, and with the other he holds a knife to his throat, probably retrieved from his jacket sleeve. Dean notes that despite being helpless the man still seems unnervingly cheerful. It's pissing him off, and he wonders if he really is a hunter, or really even human. His cheek burns and he decides to go extra hard on the guy if his eye swells up.

"I can't tell you who I am," the guy says. Sam pushes the knife more closely against his throat, almost cutting, but not quite. "I need to find Dean Winchester."

"Well you found me, asshole," Dean snaps. "What the hell do you want?"

The stranger, still unfazed to be overcome by the two, raises his eyebrows and appears pleasantly surprised. "You're Dean Winchester?" he wonders. Then he laughs and says, "Wow, that was so much easier than I thought it would be!"

"That's what happens when you go shouting at the top of your damn lungs for somebody," Dean says.

"What do you want?" Sam asks. He tries not to show it, but he's a bit shaken. They've got the guy trapped, he and Dean, but the way he keeps smiling, it's like he's still got a trick up his sleeve.

Or, as it turns out, in the palm of his hands. In a snap motion he pulls his hands free and holds them open toward Sam's chest. For a moment Sam and Dean think the star tattoos might be glowing. And then they realize that they _are _actually glowing, and by then it's too late to react properly because a blinding silver beam shoots out of each, knocking Sam directly in the chest. He's thrown backwards, right into Dean, who is even more surprised (he didn't think he could be at this point) when the momentum is enough to carry him backward too.

For a moment Dean is disoriented. Then he realizes that he's being half crushed by Sam, who isn't moving. He feels his chest tighten as blind panic sets in.

"What the hell did you just do to my brother you son of a bitch?" he shouts. He knows that they're making too much noise, that somebody inside the bar or on the street is bound to hear and come find them, but he doesn't care. The man crouches down and pulls the knife out of Sam's fingers, which give way easily because he's unconscious, then tosses it into the shadows. Dean thinks this is odd, but supposes this guy doesn't need to hold a weapon to be threatening, which is both alarming and annoying. Dean decides he needs to be upright and he tries to shove Sam off without hurting him.

"You're really Dean Winchester?" the man asks. He remains in a crouched position with his arms resting on his thighs. Dean can't see his palms, but he still watches those hands warily. What _was _that anyway? It couldn't have been a demonic thing—that shit doesn't work on Sam. So what then?

"Fuck you," Dean replies, he finally works himself free and hoists himself to his feet. The man makes no move to stop him. He lifts his hands in a gesture that seems almost placating, except Dean has seen what they can do and tenses, ready to jump out of the way. The man seems to realize this and lowers his hands again. Then he frowns, and looks down at Sam.

"Wait, did you say this is your _brother_?" He nudges Sam in the ribs with one booted foot, and Dean wishes he had some kind of weapon, or that this guy _couldn't _shoot magic out of his hands, so that he could just kill him now.

"I know," he says through his teeth. "You can hardly tell—I got all the pretty genes. Who the hell are you?"

He can hardly believe it when the guy suddenly looks sheepish. He rubs a hand through his spiky hair—the front of which is actually green, Dean can tell now, and then scratches the back of his neck.

"I'm uh, Wilbur Chung. I'm from the future. And I've been sent to save you."

Dean is taken aback by how much everything in that set of statements bothers him. So much so that all he can seem to say in reaction is, "Your name is _Wilbur_?"

"Uh, yeah," he replies, and then says, "Sorry." Dean thinks he's apologizing for his name, but the guy's looking down at Sam now, who is starting to come to. He groans and rolls to his side, curling up. Then he blinks his eyes open and sits up suddenly. He doesn't seem hurt, just confused. Dean reaches a hand down to help him up, never taking his eyes off their attacker. Or _Wilbur_, apparently.

Sam jumps up easily without needing assistance. "What the hell happened?" he asks, sounding bewildered.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asks, still watching Wilbur.

Sam shrugs, a small shiver going through his body. "Fine. Really fine, actually. I feel like I got a hit from some jumper cables. Like I could run a mile."

Wilbur sighs and looks down at his hands. "Yeah, that's the only problem with these things. They give you an extra couple seconds, but if you don't use them well it really sucks because—"

"Save it," Dean snaps. "What were you talking about? Something about saving me?"

"Oh right!" says Wilbur, brightening again. He looks completely unflustered by the fight, as if it never happened. Not a single hair spike is out of place. Dean can't remember the last time he was so irritated by someone. And then he thinks of Uriel and changes his mind. "Yes, it is my mission."

He lets that one hang there, not bothering to explain further. Dean is almost too fed up at this point to ask, and Sam still looks a bit like he's high on something. Finally Wilbur gives an appreciative whistle and says, "Snazzle. Dean and Sammy Winchester. I can hardly believe it."

"Sammy?" Sam repeats, frowning, at the same time Dean says, "Snazzle?" Sam seems to be coming back to earth now. "And what about saving Dean? Save him from what? And who are you?"

"Oh, you were unconscious," says Wilbur apologetically. "My name is Wilbur Chung. I'm a Hunter from the year 2109. I've been sent here on a mission to save Dean Winchester… and I guess, you know, the world, consequently."

"Mission from who?" Dean asks, though he hardly needs to. He already has a pretty good idea, and he wishes he didn't.

Wilbur adopts something of a self-important look. For a moment Dean can't keep himself from thinking that the guy does look kind of cool, with his gelled hair and interesting jacket. Kind of punk; maybe steam punk. A fifteen-year-old science fiction geek's vision of what a hunter would look like, maybe, assuming that fifteen-year-old had never met an actual hunter and didn't know that they dressed much more for utility and comfort than for style. And also that most of them were far too shit broke to afford it anyway.

"I've been sent here by an angel," Wilbur declares, as if this is very impressive. "God himself wants me to save you, Dean Winchester."

He appears somewhat surprised when Dean's reaction is to roll his eyes and state, "God, I wish God would quit saving me and just leave me the hell alone for once."

To be continued…

Post A/N: No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfiction. Hope you're enjoying it so far!


	2. In Which Wilbur Seems To Have

A/N: The epic continues. Glad you guys like it, or are at least willing to give it a chance!

I'm going to throw a lot of fake science out there in this story, but don't worry, if it seems inaccurate just assume that it can all be explained away with magic! Yey, magic!

Oh, and I feel I should have mentioned this before, and it becomes more clear in this chapter, but this is all taking place post "Heaven and Hell."

To Save Dean Winchester (Or Something)

Part 2: In Which Wilbur Seems to Have Everything Except the DeLorean

After discovering who they are, Wilbur becomes much more compliant. He walks in front of them the several blocks to the motel, his duffel bag slung over Dean's shoulder, and once they get to their room he even allows them to tie him to a chair, hands facing downward in case he gets any funny ideas with his… whatever it is he can do. He's already been splashed with holy water, which leaves him wet but perfectly unharmed. Dean didn't think he was a demon anyway, but it was better safe than sorry.

The brothers are in the tiny bathroom—it is so small that they practically don't fit. The door is half open so they can keep an eye on their prisoner, and they lower their voices so they can decide what to do next without being overheard.

"Do you seriously believe him, Dean?" Sam asks. "No offense, but I kind of expected you to be a bit more cynical about this."

"Yeah, well, I don't know. It's just… this is just the sort of crap those angels like to pull, you know? I went back in time once too, remember?"

"Of course I remember," Sam replies. "You met Mom, and Dad, and you were supposed to save them. But you couldn't. I thought you said that was the point. That Castiel said that was the point."

"Well maybe now he's doing the same thing to this poor bastard," Dean says, nodding towards Wilbur, who does not appear to be very alarmed about his circumstances, and on the contrary has spent the past few minutes humming to himself.

"But that means he's really supposed to save you," Sam says, adopting that concerned puppy-dog expression he does so well. "That means something's supposed to happen to you. You could _die_, Dean."

Dean sighs. "Been there, done that. It just doesn't hold the same kind of thrill as it used to."

He smiles, a smile that very assuringly says that he doesn't care anymore, which Sam sees right through. But he lets it slide. Now is not the time to discuss the crushing depression anyone may or may not be feeling after the most unfortunate punishment a soul could possibly experience. It _is_ the time to figure out what the hell to do with the guy tied up in the next room, who may or may not be from the future.

Sam sighs. "Well, first thing I think we should do is figure out if he's really from the future. 2109, he said. That's exactly a hundred years from now. Think that's significant?"

"Who the hell knows?" Dean says as if he doesn't care. "Let's see how he did that magic bolt thingy. Or if he's got cool future stuff in his bag."

"Right," says Sam, trying to maintain the seriousness of the situation. "Let's go interrogate him."

He squeezes past Dean to get back into the room. Dean follows and doesn't bother to keep his voice down when he asks, "Can we use torture? I owe him one for this." He points to his cheek, which is bruising purple but hasn't swollen his eye shut.

"You don't have to torture me," Wilbur replies, not as if he is frightened but rather as if Dean were silly for making the suggestion. "I'll tell you everything you want to know. I want to prove to you that I'm here to help."

"Oh, I'll just bet you're here to help," Dean comments. "That's why you attacked us, right?"

"I said I was sorry!" Wilbur complains. "You dragged me out of that place and were ready to fight me. How was I supposed to know who you were?"

"You _knew _who I was when you shot my brother, you idiot," Dean points out.

"He had a knife to my throat!"

"Enough!" Sam says before Dean can reply. "Shut up, both of you, this is not helpful." He turns to Wilbur. "You're from the future? Prove it."

Wilbur shrugs his shoulders, obviously a difficult action due to the tightness of his bindings. "My Hunter badge is in my bag," he says, nodding to where Dean dumped it on the bed while they were tying him up. "It has my birth date on it."

Sam gives him a suspicious look and says, "The badge could be a fake." Then his air of confidence falters. "And what do you mean, your _hunter_ badge? You have a badge for being a hunter?"

"All Hunters have badges," Wilbur says as if this is common knowledge. He looks expectantly at Sam and Dean. "You guys have them, don't you?"

"Oh, we have lots of badges," agrees Dean. "Health inspector, F.B.I., sous chef. Probably the only thing we _don't _have a badge for is being a hunter." He sits down on the bed and snatches the bag toward him—not easy, considering how heavy it is. He is unsurprised to see that the thing opens with a series of buckles. They look cool, but they are difficult to unfasten. Two minutes and various swear words later, he opens the bag and sees its contents for the first time.

"Holy crap," he says, "Sammy, come look at this."

Together they dump the contents of the bag out onto the bed. "Be careful!" Wilbur warns, but they ignore him. There is _a lot _of stuff, only some of it recognizable. Most noticeably there is a series of hand guns—or at least they look like they might be hand guns. They are much lighter and more streamline than anything the Winchesters have seen before, and only one appears to use bullets, (which begs the question: what, exactly, do the others shoot?). A series of knives, all sheathed, all revealed to be sharp and made of different metals. There's also a square, plastic container that turns out to be filled with salt, a rosary, and a metal thermos that's filled with water—presumably holy water. Beyond that, nothing has an easily recognizable function.

"What the hell is this?" Dean demands, holding up a triangular device with blue plastic casing and needle sharp antennae poking out of it. It has a small screen, but it isn't on and he can't find a switch.

Wilbur sighs. "It's a demon locator, obviously."

"Obviously," repeats Dean, eyeing the thing. "How does it work?"

"It detects demonic energies via a satellite feed. ...you guys really don't use these? Don't tell me you still use omens to track them!" When Sam and Dean don't reply, Wilbur rolls his eyes and says, "Spleesh, I forgot how backwards 20th century hunters were…" Then he amends, "I mean, how backwards they _are_."

"It's the _21__st_ century," Sam reminds him, but he's still poking through the bag's odd contents and his heart isn't in the argument.

"It doesn't matter," Wilbur replies, "All of your methods come from hundreds of years ago."

"What's this?" Dean asks. Now he's holding a small glass phial. He shakes it experimentally and notes that it's thicker than water, though it's just as clear.

"Holy ground," replies Wilbur immediately. When the brothers shoot him _you gotta be kidding me _looks he explains, "Dirt taken from sacred ground, broken down into its elements, and re-formulated into a liquid solution. It neutralizes most evil spirits."

"I'll be damned," Dean says. Without thinking he adds, "Again," and smiles at his own joke while squinting at the bottle. It's hard to believe, but if it's true then it's pretty damn useful.

Wilbur, who up until this point seemed somewhat naïve if not down-right slow on the uptake, picks up on Dean's comment immediately. "Oh," he says, frowning slightly, "So that you-going-to-hell thing already happened? I guess that's not what I'm here to save you from." He continues to look thoughtful, and seems generally concerned about this mission of his.

Sam still isn't buying it, though. Amidst various other pieces of inexplicable technology is a thin, wallet sized metal case. "This it?" he asks, holding it up.

Wilbur nods, smiling. "Yep, that's my badge. It needs my thumb print to open it though." He wiggles the fingers of his right hand toward it, and Sam approaches cautiously. On the one hand, he could be telling the truth, and on the other hand it could actually be some kind of weapon or something. Maybe a bomb that just needs the man's thumb print to detonate. Of course, then he'd be blowing himself up too… Of course, all of this could just be a huge hoax, he reminds himself sternly.

Carefully, Sam places the case under the man's thumb. The front is completely smooth, with nothing to indicate anything like a print scanner, but half a second after making contact with Wilbur's skin the case emits a soft _beep_ and slides open. Dean and Sam both lean in to read what turns out to be a surprisingly normal looking badge, with a picture of Wilbur on the left (smiling, of course) and a series of information meant to be taken at quick perusal, including his birth date (06/30/2085). There is also a date on which the badge had apparently been issued (07/04/2103). But most disturbing is the logo at the top, which tells them one thing: this badge is, allegedly, an official document of the United States Government.

"Hunters are government employees in the future?" Dean wonders, snatching the badge from Sam to look at it more closely. He rounds on Wilbur. "Do you get paid?" he asks furiously.

"Who would get into this line of work for free?" Wilbur chides.

Dean nods. "Now I really am going to hit him," he tells Sam.

"Oh, please don't!" Wilbur pleads, "I'm sorry I keep upsetting you! And I'm sorry for hitting you before, you were right: I _do _have steel implanted in my knuckles." Before Dean can exclaim about this Wilbur continues, suddenly woeful, "I'm so disoriented. Everything's different. …you do believe me, don't you? I don't know what I'll do if you don't believe me!"

"Oh, I know," Dean supplies, and is probably about to continue with something violent, but Sam interrupts that train of thought.

"I don't know, Dean," he says, sitting down on the bed that isn't covered in weird future hunting gear. "This is seriously weird. We can't jump to any conclusions."

"Will you make up your mind already?" Dean doesn't sound quite serious as he asks the question. "Either you believe this guy or you don't. What did you shoot Sam with earlier?" he asks Wilbur.

Wilbur is startled to have the question put to him so suddenly, but he collects himself and explains: "The hexagrams on my palms. They're tattoos, with special ink infused with nanobots. You see, hexagrams are ancient symbols of balance and unity, and any time my body experiences an emotional or chemical imbalance, say, an influx of adrenaline during a fight, the hexagrams work to restore the balance, in this case by taking the adrenaline, converted to kinetic energy by the nanobots, and expelling it. That beam of energy hit you, Sammy, and knocked you backward, but because the energy imbalance originally came from a human body and easily converts back to its original form, it then was absorbed into your body, initially knocking you out before it returned to its original state, adrenaline, and gave you a boost of energy. Kind of a flaw, really, but you should see how it works when you use fatigue or embarrassment."

He takes maybe one breath during the entire speech.

Dean and Sam are somewhat stunned into silence. Finally Dean says to his brother, "Okay, Sam, I understood maybe five words of that. This guy's gotta be for real."

"It sounds like… like you're combining science with magic," Sam says, trying to wrap his mind around the process described to him.

Wilbur nods excitedly, "That's not what it's like, it's what it _is_! Like I said, hunters from way back, well, now, were always looking to the past for solutions instead of coming up with new ones. Except Samuel Colt. He was ahead of his time."

"Hear that, Sammy?" Dean grins, nudging Sam. "Colt's still famous in the 2100s." Despite his dislike of Wilbur, he still seems too excited about the whole future thing. It's throwing Sam off, who's not used to being the cynical one of the two. But he feels like somebody needs to show some sense in this situation, since his brother is too caught up in the cool tricks, and Wilbur sure as hell hasn't been making much sense.

"That's really great, Dean," Sam says, obviously not actually caring. "But what do you know about _us_, Wilbur?"

"No much," Wilbur admits. "Just that Dean Winchester was one of the greatest hunters of the past two centuries and that he was an emissary to the angels."

Dean looks impressed. "Hey, not bad! One of the greatest hunters, huh? And emissary to the angels? That's not bad at all. I'm glad I get remembered that way, because right now I feel a lot more like their bitch than their emissary." The last part of his comment grows a bit sour, but he's still grinning. Wilbur doesn't seem to know what to think of it. So he turns to Sam and says,

"And Sammy Winchester."

Now Dean bursts out laughing. "Really?" he asks, "_Sammy _Winchester?"

"Great," Sam sighs, "I used to think _Sam _Winchester might make history for being a great lawyer." He glares at Dean. "I blame you." He clears his throat, back to business. "Well, what did I do?"

"Almost brought about the apocalypse," Wilbur says cheerfully. "That's why I didn't know who you were, you know, back in the alley. I always pictured you a lot scarier."

Sam frowns at this comment, and Dean isn't sure whether to laugh or to take it seriously. Of course he goes for the option that is at his brother's expense, and is still chuckling when Sam says, "I can't believe I'm buying into this, but _how, _exactly, do I _almost _bring about the apocalypse?"

Dean interrupts Wilbur before he can answer. "Yeah, yeah, Mr. Antichrist, we'll get to you later. More importantly, Will—can I call you Will?"

"My friends usually do—"

"Okay, so, _Wilbur_, assuming we do believe you, what did this angel who sent you here tell you to do, exactly?"

_Assuming we do believe_… Sam realizes that while his brother may have been having fun with Wilbur's crazy story, he hadn't necessarily been going right along with it. Since their talk after the whole Anna thing blew over he's sometimes been having a hard time knowing what, exactly, is going through his brother's head. It's disconcerting. He tries not to show that he's surprised by Dean's sudden skepticism.

Wilbur looks uncomfortable in the chair, which is straight-backed and wooden. His bindings are starting to chafe his skin. Still, his lips remain curved in an optimistic smile that makes his almond eyes sparkle and his eyebrows lift.

"Oh, she didn't tell me anything _exactly_," he says.

"She?" Dean repeats.

"Yeah," says Wilbur, "Castiel." A series of expressions cross Dean's face, ranging from disgusted to intrigued, but Wilbur doesn't seem to notice. "Anyway, she said that _you _were chosen to perform a very important task, but around now something happened to you so that you didn't do it, or couldn't do it. She didn't really make it clear. So then the angels had to choose a different person, and he wasn't really as fit for the job as you were, and… well, she wouldn't really say how that changed things, but I think it might be why there's so many demons running around in my time."

"Of course she wouldn't say," Dean says, mostly to himself. "I bet Castiel is only _more _confusing when he's a chick."

"There are a lot of demons in your time?" Sam asks before Wilbur and Dean can get any further in _that _conversation.

"Sure are!" replies Wilbur, immediately distracted. "Hunting is a full time job. Why do you think I get paid so much?"

Dean does his best to ignore this and asks, "So, what's supposed to happen to me?"

Oddly enough, thanks to Wilbur's attitude probably the hardest thing to believe is that he's a hunter at all. They're not exactly known for their optimism and sunny dispositions. But the kid can hold his own in a fight, and what with his bag of futuristic tricks and the fact that he invoked Castiel's name, his story is checking out more and more.

He beams at the brothers. "No idea, but I guess we'll find out! Hey, do you guys think you could untie me now?"

To be continued…

Post A/N: Don't worry, I know exactly where I'm going with this! Sort of.

Mini-disclaimer: I got "spleesh" from Futurama. Which, now that I think about it, may or may not be the reason this story exists at all. Huh.


	3. In Which the Brothers Fail to Lose

A/N: Hi all! Thanks for the reviews and alert adds and all that other good stuff that shows up in my email box! Hooray!

So, obviously, I began this story before the continuation of Season 4… I'm trying to incorporate it a little, but for the most part we're just being silly here, so… but if anyone wants a timeline, I think we could assume this would take place between "Heaven and Hell" and "Family Remains."

Okay. Enjoy!

To Save Dean Winchester (Or Something)

Part 3: In Which the Brothers Fail to Lose Wilbur

They have another whispered meeting in the bathroom.

"So… do we let him go?" Sam asks. He's got his own opinion on the matter—an opinion that involves leaving Will tied to the chair while he and Dean drive out of town, fast—but decides to follow Dean's lead. After all, Dean knows a lot more about these kinds of shenanigans, and, as Sam realized, is being more logical about the situation than Sam had originally given him credit for.

"I think so," says Dean. "I mean… I don't know, Sammy, he's either telling the truth or completely crazy, but I don't think _he _thinks he's lying."

"Even if we thought he was…" Sam points out, "Lying or crazy couldn't have made the stuff in his bag, or those tattoos… I mean, that would take some really _serious_ lying or crazy."

Dean peers through the door to check up on Wilbur. The guy isn't humming to himself this time, and even looks a little bit worried. Dean supposes even a nut-job like him would realize that the verdict of this discussion is potentially the difference between going free or… not. Not that he has any serious notions about hurting the guy at this point. He's too _nice_. Dean has pretty good instincts when it comes to deciding who is good and who was evil, and this guy isn't exactly setting off any alarm bells.

It could all be an act. It could all be a hoax. And yet…

Dean says, "You saw what he can do, all that stuff he has. I think if he really wanted to hurt us, he would have tried harder." Not that he thinks Wilbur would stand a chance if it came to a serious fight, magic tattoos or no. Please, they weren't the Winchesters for nothing. "And he didn't _have _to let us capture him," he adds.

Sam closes his eyes for a moment, looking immensely tired. Dean can imagine what he's thinking—wishing that they were still back at the bar, drinking, laughing, that the evening had gone just as planned. He grins to himself. _You should know by now that it never does, Sammy…_

"All right," Sam sighs finally. "Let's let him go." He takes the lead out of the bathroom and strides over to Wilbur's chair. Wilbur perks up immediately.

"Do you believe me?" he asks eagerly. Sam is already beginning to free one of his arms, and still doesn't look too happy about it.

"Sort of," Dean says, working on his other side.

Wilbur thinks about this. "Okay, you sort of believe me. Well I guess that's better than _totally _not believing me, right?" He grins first at Dean, and then at Sam, who pulls the last knot free and then regards him stonily.

"Right," he says, "Well, the point is, we're not going to hurt you. So why don't you just pack up all your… stuff, and get out of here, okay?"

Wilbur rubs his wrists where the skin is red and raw, looking perplexed. "What do you mean, get out of here?"

"It means, _leave_," Dean explains helpfully.

"Well, yeah," says Wilbur. Apparently they still have that phrase in the future. "But why are you saying it to me? I can't _leave_." He becomes somewhat frantic. "I've been sent—"

"By an angel to save Dean Winchester," Dean finishes. "Yeah, we get it. But look around, buddy," he spreads his arms, the gesture encompassing most of the admittedly harmless-looking motel room. "I don't exactly _need _saving. If something comes up, I can deal."

Wilbur rolls his eyes. "Not _if _something comes up, _when_. And you most certainly can_not _deal! Castiel sent me for a reason! She wouldn't have bothered if I couldn't do anything to help you."

Sam and Dean share a knowing look. Yes she sure as hell _would _do exactly that, but poor Wilbur doesn't know it yet.

"I hate to break this to you, pal," Dean says, not sounding particularly sorry at all, probably because it feels pretty good not to be the one getting screwed with for once, "But I think that's _exactly _something Castiel would bother to do. He's," he closes his eyes and suppresses a small shiver before continuing, "_she's_ probably trying to prove some lame-ass point to you, and instead of just _explaining _it like a decent human being, she's got to send you on some psychotic misadventure. Personally, I think that's how she gets her jollies." He raises his eyebrows at Sam, "You know angels don't have sex?"

Sam is taken aback. "I never really thought about it."

"Oh come on," Dean continues, "You so have."

"Have not," Sam insists, his face turning a little red.

Dean rolls his eyes and says in Wilbur's direction but entirely for Sam's benefit, "Boy gets in on with a demon but now he's embarrassed to talk about angels? I guess you've got a type. And it's really, really weird."

Wilbur regards Sam with wide, amazed eyes. "You had sex with a _demon_?" he asks, genuinely curious. Sam heaves a huge sigh and closes his eyes as if fending off a headache.

"How did this conversation even happen?" he asks tiredly. "We were just kicking Wilbur out, _remember_?" He open-hands Dean on the chest with the last word, causing the older Winchester to catch his breath before coughing it off and attempting to look as if he was being serious the entire time.

"Right, well as much as we are all fascinated by Sam's freaky hell-fiend sex life: Wilbur, get going."

Wilbur appears about to argue, but seems to lose his voice as he looks back and forth between the two brothers, both of whom are towering over them with crossed arms and set glares. When he stands up he's taller than Dean only by his long hair spikes.

"I just… I just don't know what else to do," he says. There is an edge to his tone that sounds like panic. Sam suddenly feels bad for the guy—after all, if anything he does really seem to believe everything he's been saying, and it's not a good situation to be in. And if he _is _telling the truth. Well, then maybe they should keep him around. It couldn't hurt, and if Dean is in danger…

Dean, it seems, may have felt a flash of sympathy too, because he reaches into his pocket and spends a few moments sifting through his wallet. Finally he selects a card and hands it to Wilbur.

"Here," he says. Wilbur regards the card warily for a moment before tentatively taking it between his fingers.

"What does it do?" he asks.

Dean rolls his eyes. "It's called a credit card. It's money. I mean, it's not money, but you can use it to buy things."

Wilbur's eyes widen with recognition. "Oh," he says. He holds up one arm. "Can't I just use the bank chip in my wrist?" He lowers his hand uncertainly at Sam and Dean's stares. "I guess you guys don't have those yet."

"No," the brothers say together, firmly.

For the next few minutes Wilbur packs up his bag in silence. There is an uneasy tension in the room. Sam and Dean just wish he would leave already. Finally when he seems to have everything together they somewhat forcefully usher him to the door.

"I… uh," Wilbur says awkwardly. He still seems at a loss, a complete one-eighty from his previous perky optimism. Sam supposes at the time his situation hadn't quite sunk in yet and again feels a pang for sending him out on his own. Perhaps to make himself feel better too, he says,

"Don't worry. I'm sure once Castiel sees that you can't complete your… mission… or whatever, h—she'll send you right back home."

Wilbur looks at him directly, and it's hard to hold his gaze when he looks so lost and alone. Sam thinks that possibly _this _is the sort of effect he himself has on other people sometimes... But it's all wrong on Wilbur, with his odd hair and alarmingly cool outfit. He'll stick out wherever he goes like that, especially in the relatively small town where they've stopped for the night.

"You really don't think I can?" he asks.

Dean sighs. This is getting ridiculous. "No," he says, and closes the door in Wilbur's face.

For a moment or two the brothers just stand there, watching the door. Sam wonders if Wilbur would still be standing there looking lost if they opened it again. He half reaches out, as if going to check, but Dean slaps his hand away.

"Stop that," he says. "He'll get going, don't worry." He sees that Sam still has that _concerned _expression on his face and sighs. "Look, we're doing the guy a _favor_. If he can't be around me, there's no chance of _saving _me. Castiel will have to take him back. He'll be all right."

Sam finally relents and appears suddenly tired. "If you say so."

They spend the next few minutes not talking, each getting ready for bed in his own way: Sam slipping off his jeans and brushing his teeth, Dean flopping onto his own bed, shoes and all, eyeing a few print-outs with a pen between his lips. Sam pretends not to notice. He's too tired, and he doesn't even want to know.

But some things, he feels, ought to be discussed.

"I don't know, Dean," he says carefully as he sits down on the opposite bed. "Don't you think we should at least do something about what he was talking about?"

Sam watches as his brothers eyes continue to scan the page before finding a stopping point and looking up at him. "Yeah, I was thinking that too," Dean agrees, his words a little muffled thanks to the pen, "We totally should have asked him about stock market trends. I mean, forget credit cards, we could be legit rich!"

"That's not what I mean," Sam says, and doesn't know why he bothers. Of course Dean knows what he's really talking about, he's just deflecting. So what else is new.

"Oh right," Dean replies, scoffing, "I forgot I need to be _saved _from something. Or else I don't get to play heaven's puppet anymore. Honestly, I don't really have a problem with that."

Sam refuses to smile. "What if you die?"

His tone remains joking, but his eyes have a defiant gleam when Dean repeats the same retort as before, "Been there, done that." They regard each other for a moment, but before Sam can think of a proper retort, something that might convince his brother of the seriousness of the situation, Dean is already looking down at his papers.

"I found our next hunt," he says conversationally. "Cape May, New Jersey."

Sam gives up. "Another one?" he groans. "We just finished one today, can't we get a break?"

"Evil doesn't take a break, Sammy," Dean retorts, "And we don't either."

Sam could comment that Dean has, in the past, come up with the idea of doing just that—taking a break from the job for a while so they could put off all of the crazy shit, maybe just for a little while. But he doesn't, because it would be pointless. Right now, for Dean, hunting is the escape.

--

They're in the car and ready to go. Dean has already made the day's musical selection (Black Sabbath: We Sold Our Soul for Rock 'N' Roll, 1975) and they are just about to pull out of the parking lot when Dean has to stop short because he almost runs over Wilbur, who jumps in front of the car with his bag slung over one arm and the other waving frantically.

The front of the car hits the Asian man with just enough force for him to stumble back a bit, but he quickly gets his bearings and dashes to the driver's side. He then begins to tap on Dean's window enthusiastically, grinning all the while.

Dean stares at him for a moment, then glances at Sam. Sam can see in his brother's eyes that he's about to drive off without further acknowledgement of Wilbur and shoots him a look of disbelief in return. Dean finishes the silent exchange by rolling his eyes and grudgingly rolling down his window.

"What?" he snaps at Wilbur.

"I used a credit card last night!" Wilbur says to them very fast and very excitedly. "I didn't know where to go, so I wanted to get a room because I thought maybe this was a hotel, but like a weird one, you know? Where you have to go ask for a room instead of just scanning your thumb print in a vacant one? Anyway, I used the card you gave me, and it worked, just like a bank chip! And then I slept in a room, and the bed had a mattress and it had _springs _in it! I could hear them squeaking!"

Dean glares at Sam again, silently blaming him for interrupting what would have been a speedy escape. Sam shrugs, and Dean turns back to Wilbur with his fakest smile.

"That's really great, Wilbur. I'm, uh, proud of you. Now if you'll excuse us, we have to be going." He starts to roll the window up again, but Wilbur immediately protests and grabs the top of the glass with both hands. Dean briefly considers continuing to close the window anyway, but finally relents.

"Something _else _we can do for you?" Dean asks, fake smile still in place but his eyes so hard anyone else would notice and back down immediately.

But Wilbur clearly isn't anyone else.

"Yes," he says right away. "I need to go with you, of course!"

"I thought we cleared this up yesterday," Sam cuts in. "Remember? You can't come with us."

Wilbur brushes the comment off and his smile somehow gets even bigger. "Oh, I know that's what you _said_. But Castiel visited me last night. When I was bouncing on the springy mattress." He looks at Dean. "She said that you can be a jerk sometimes and I shouldn't let you not let me save you."

"Castiel called me a _jerk_?" Dean asks in disbelief.

"Sure did!" says Wilbur, pleased to have recounted his little story. Sam is busy laughing in the passenger seat.

"Huh," says Dean, not sure if he should be more insulted or surprised. "I guess Castiel grows a pair in the next hundred years. …actually, I guess _she _does just the opposite."

"So I'm coming with you," Wilbur finishes, as if this were a logical conclusion to Dean's musing.

"No, you're not," Dean begins, but he's cut off by Sam who says, "Sure, hop in."

Dean turns to his brother in disbelief. "What?"

Sam shrugs, looking evasive. "I just… don't see the harm in bringing him along for a while. I mean, until Castiel sends him back. He has nowhere else to go. And um," his argument gains momentum as he forms it on the spot, "We can't have him revealing all that future stuff, you know? Do you really think he can be left on his own and stay hidden?"

Dean unwillingly glances back at Wilbur, who barely seems to have understood the gist of Sam's argument and gives him a very enthusiastic thumbs up. Dean sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again he says, "Fine," through gritted teeth. "Hop in the back, future boy, and if any of your weirdo gadgets mess up my car, I'll kill you."

"Hazzazzle!" Wilbur shouts in victory. It takes him a few seconds to figure out how to work the door handle of the Impala, but he finally gets it right and slides in, looking pleased as punch.

"I for one am really excited," he beams, "This is my first ride in a car from this time. It smells funny. Oh my god, does it run on _gasoline_?"

Dean tears out of the parking lot so fast that Wilbur is thrown to one side of the car and obtains a minor injury that makes him exclaim but does not take the smile from his face. This makes Dean feel a little better, but as they pull out onto the open road he cranks up the music and says to Sam so Wilbur won't hear, "So what's up, huh? First you think this guy's a joke, or here to kill us or something, and now you're inviting him along like he's one of the gang?"

"I just think it wouldn't hurt to bring him along," Sam says resolutely, eyes focused out the window.

"Uh huh," says Dean, "I just bet that's what you think."

"Hey, this is great, but can your car play any Miley Cyrus?" Wilbur shouts over the music. "She's really popular in my time!"

Dean decides to stare ahead at the road and ignore him. "I think I might die after all," he says to Sam, "Six hours in the car with this guy and I might just kill myself."

To be continued…


	4. In Which Wilbur Generally Has No Idea

A/N: ROAD TRIP MONTAGE!

To Save Dean Winchester (Or Something)

Part 4: In Which Wilbur Generally Has No Idea What's Going On

Wilbur is just lucky that Led Zeppelin, along with Miley Cyrus, has made a huge comeback in his time. When Dean switches the tape to "Houses of the Holy" an hour into the ride and Wilbur gleefully begins to sing along, the tension in the car eases considerably. Dean, in fact, breaks what was an extremely stony silence and even starts up a conversation.

"So, Will, tell me… Castiel, is she hot?" he calls to the back seat. Sam snorts. Wilbur seems to take the question very seriously.

"I couldn't say…" he says after a while. "I think she might be. She's kind of old. Like thirty."

Dean frowns slightly at the comment, being almost thirty himself at this point, but lets it slide in order to get more information.

"All right, man, but what does she _look _like? I mean, say she wasn't an old lady. Would you do her?"

Wilbur still seems unable to find a definite answer. "She looks… I don't know, she's got dark hair… I mean, I guess she's attractive. I can't really think about her like that, though, the angel thing weirds me out. I mean, can you imagine sleeping with an angel?"

Suddenly Dean loses interest in the conversation.

--

They stop at a diner about three hours in to piss and get some late lunch. Sam lectures Wilbur extensively before they go inside about keeping a low profile and not exclaiming about every little thing he happens to find amazing. Wilbur nods fervently as if he understands.

But clearly he does not.

"LOOK, A REAL LIVE WAITRESS!" he says, marching directly over to the middle-aged bottle blonde as she straightens from pouring a cuppa' for an old man in the corner booth. He takes in her pink dress, coffee-stained apron, and over-done makeup in a single sweep of his almond eyes and grins happily. "You're wonderful!" he exclaims to her, with certainty.

The waitress immediately blushes, but as she gives Wilbur her own perusal and notes his green hair and extremely-buckled trench, she seems at a loss as to whether she should be flattered or not.

Sam and Dean make their way over with long-suffering gaits and through a series of shrugs and wan smiles try to convey wordlessly to the poor woman that, yes, they are with this guy, yes he is a little touched in the head, and really they would have nothing to do with them if it weren't for the kindness of their hearts. Whether or not she receives this message is unknown, but she does shrug and smile a little.

"You boys can take the booth by the window," she says, and hurries back to the kitchen.

Dean grabs Wilbur by the elbow and forces him over to the booth before he can cause any more trouble.

"Were you even listening to all that good-behavior crap Sam was giving you?" Dean whispers angrily.

Wilbur does not appear to be listening even now.

"This place is _awesome_," he says, not bothering to whisper back. "Look at all the little booths. And that woman, did you see her? She actually _brings _you your food. Most of the restaurants in my time have automatic delivery, but it's so fun to _talk _to somebody. Oh my God, does she _write it down_? With a pen and paper? Do you guys still use that?"

"Wilbur, shut up," Sam snaps. Wilbur shuts his mouth tight, but he's still smiling and his eyes are sparkling.

The same waitress from before returns, better composed this time. She gives a full smile to all of them, but Sam and Dean can't help but notice that she regards Wilbur in the way one might regard a small child.

"Coffee for you guys?" she asks. Sam thinks that giving Wilbur coffee is probably the worst idea in the history of ideas, so he makes a point of only ordering two cups. He feels justified in this decision especially when the waitress suggests a pancake special.

"PANCAKES!?" Wilbur bursts out.

Right, definitely no caffeine for him.

--

It's late afternoon when their surroundings very noticeably transition into a shore town. There's no mistaking the colorful sidewalks, souvenir shops, and beach-themed motels. Sam catches a glimpse of the ocean during one stretch of road, but the further in town they get the more hidden it becomes behind buildings and boardwalks.

Overall, the town looks pretty interesting, but it doesn't hold much interest to either of the Winchester boys. Wilbur, on the other hand, has his face literally pressed against the window, and he stares out with wide eyes.

"This is amazing!" he exclaims happily. "Did you see the huge lobster? Did you see it?"

"It wasn't real, Will," Sam answers, unable to keep from smiling. "It was a gimmick for some restaurant."

Wilbur shakes his head, bewildered. "Do all restaurants have big fake lobsters here? The one before didn't!" It is hard to believe that he is serious, but after spending six hours in the car with the guy, neither Sam nor Dean doubt that he is.

--

The motel they settle into for the night is a few blocks from the beach. The outdoor pool is fenced in and surrounded by giant plastic palm trees decked out in Christmas lights. They shine through the thin, seashell printed curtains.

This has not prevented Wilbur from falling asleep cozily on the floor in a haphazard nest of towels and extra blankets. Neither of the brothers was very keen on letting him off to his own devices again. Sam, feeling a little sorry for the time-lost Hunter, offered to be the one to sleep on the floor (only after Wilbur had cheerfully offered to bunk with Dean, and was, of course, refused before he could even finish his sentence), but Wilbur was all too happy to experience a night that way.

For the first few minutes he snores with gusto, and Dean comments under his breath that he might have to kill him for the zillionth time that day. But after a while his breathing settles down, and Sam catches Dean smiling a bit at Wilbur, as if he's not actually all that mad to have him along.

Or at least it seems that way until the two brothers are settled into their own beds.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean asks quietly. Sam doesn't like his tone and wonders if he should pretend to be asleep.

"You're not sleeping," Dean says after a few seconds. "Your legs twitch when you sleep."

Or not.

"That's weird," Sam points out, sitting up slightly and facing his brother. Dean shrugs.

"You're the one who does it, not me. I think it's 'cause they're too long. Seriously, do you even fit in a bed?"

Truthfully Sam's feet _almost_ go over the edge of the mattress, but not quite. He frowns. "What's up, Dean?"

With his eyes adjusted and with the helpful glow of the tacky lights from outside, Sam can see that his brother's expression grows serious.

"I know why you want this joker along, and it's got nothing to do with keeping him out of trouble."

Sam defends himself weakly, wondering why he even bothers. "You know we can't leave him by himself, Dean. You saw him in the diner today, even after I talked to him."

Dean shakes his head. "Give it a rest, Sammy. You're worried about this stupid saving-me thing. You should just forget it. I don't like it when you think you can be all sneaky, and like you're doing it to help me. You pull this crap all the time."

"Not all the time," Sam sighs, his statement conceding at least that he _does _do it. "Just when you're in danger."

"Yeah, well, it pisses me off," Dean snaps. "And I don't appreciate that you think I need someone like Will here to look out for me. He's a nut-job!"

"Maybe," Sam admits. "But you can't say he's not useful. You saw what he can do. He'd probably be an even match for either one of us."

Dean highly doubts this. "Maybe you," he says, "But not me, freaky tattoos or no. And I don't care if he even is useful. Three's a crowd, you know?"

"You, me, and Dad were three. That was all right."

This, of course, only makes Dean angrier. "Stop acting like he's a permanent addition to the group or something, okay? We are not on a TV show. Wilbur is not some new lame-ass character added in the fourth season to mix things up a bit."

"When were you ever able to follow a TV show long enough to even know about that kind of stuff?" wonders Sam, who discovered that shows like "Law and Order" and "CSI" actually did have traceable story arcs only after having a permanent residence, and a permanent television.

"Not the point," Dean sighs. "Look, he can stick around until Castiel decides to send him back, but he's not going to _save _me, and he's really not coming on this hunt with us."

Sam thinks about arguing, but decides against it. He'd rather sleep than fight with Dean when his brother is clearly in a mood.

"Fine," he says, "He won't go on the hunt with us. _Unless _we need back-up. It wouldn't be the first time."

"Whatever," Dean grumbles. He turns away as if he is settling in to sleep, but Sam knows he's only pretending.

To be continued…

Post A/N: Sort of serious ending, wah wah! I'll try to fix that next time.


End file.
